


The House That Harry Built

by asecretchord



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-12
Updated: 2013-01-12
Packaged: 2017-11-25 04:21:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/635056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asecretchord/pseuds/asecretchord
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After surviving Nagini's attack, a Mysterious Benefactor is required to underwrite Snape's recovery. With the assistance of Luna Lovegood and Neville Longbottom and a Siamese cat with a mind of its own, Snape learns there is a chance for happily ever after. This gentle story about the hope for domestic bliss in a post-war world was written for the 2012 Secret Snarry Swap.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The House That Harry Built

The House That Harry Built 

 

Kingsley Shacklebolt rubbed his weary eyes and rolled his shoulders in an attempt to ease the ache in the middle of his back. His days since Voldemort's demise had been nothing less than an infinite series of endless meetings, and tomorrow he was scheduled to appear before the Wizengamot to seek their approval on the Rehabilitation and Reconciliation Act.

Despite the fact that a full-scale war had been waged for months prior, the Wizengamot remained adamant that the use of Unforgivables was punishable by law. There was no provision for Acts of War; even during the time of Grindelwald, witches and wizards found guilty of casting them had still been sent to Azkaban. However, the fact that Harry Potter, the boy hero himself, had used Unforgivables changed the legal landscape. No one wanted to see him sent to Azkaban, but the plea that the curses had been legal under the government of Pius Thicknesse, when they were cast, fell on deaf ears.

Kingsley read through the Act one more time, added a note in the margin on the third page, and hoped fervently that the Wizengamot would find it acceptable. The Act dealt fairly, he thought, with the Death Eaters who had used Unforgivables—all of them, as it happened. Absent mitigating factors, they would spend the rest of their lives in Azkaban and all assets would be forfeited to the Ministry.

Others who used Unforgivables, either in self-defence or in furtherance of the war against Voldemort, would be given a choice between five years in Azkaban, five thousand hours of service to the Wizarding world over a period of no less than five years, or monetary contributions to the support of those witches and wizards left destitute in the wake of the war. The Department of Mysteries would match donor to recipient and each side would remain anonymous. The term was 'double-blind,' and Kingsley thought the Wizengamot would be blind to reality if they didn't approve it.

There was even a provision for Severus Snape, who was still recuperating in St Mungo's from the bite wounds Nagini had given him. Snape had worked so hard, done so much and had nearly given his life to bring about the end of Voldemort; but he also had murdered Albus Dumbledore, and few were inclined to forgive him, no matter how justified it had been. Most wanted him chucked in Azkaban without any possibility of freedom, but Kingsley had viewed the memories Snape had given Harry and could not find it in his heart to do that, no matter how much he loathed the man personally.

Snape had been left with nothing, not even his health. His tiny house at Spinner's End was destroyed. The Board of Governors of Hogwarts had refused Minerva McGonagall's passionate plea for his reinstatement. Snape had no money, no home, and his prospects for employment were dim. He would be among those most in need of rehabilitation, and yet was expected to make restitution, as well.

Kingsley knew that Snape's stiff-necked pride would compel the Potions Master to choose a long stay in Azkaban over a long sentence of community service, so Kingsley simply took the choice away from him. Snape would be required to provide ten years of community service and be placed on the list of recipients for aid. Period. 

Section V of the Rehabilitation and Reconciliation Act was all about Severus Snape.

~*~

It was the end of June, and Harry Potter awoke in his bed in Grimmauld Place and scowled at the ceiling. There was not a brick, stone, or wall he didn't despise in the place, and the longer he stayed the more he hated it. Once again, he gave some consideration to going to the Burrow, but Ginny was there and he just didn't have the heart to face her. Still. Again. So he chose to ignore her until he could sort himself out.

After a breakfast of cornflakes and pumpkin juice, Harry went out into the garden to see if perhaps there was something he could do to make the place more hospitable. He knelt down and began pulling weeds, finding the work relaxing, and soon began wondering if this horror of a house could be used by the Ministry. Mr Weasley had mentioned something about a number of families whose houses had been destroyed, and Harry reckoned that Grimmauld Place could fit half a dozen Weasley families if they all got on fairly well.

A tawny owl bearing a thick envelope landed beside him and obediently held out its leg. "I've not got any treats," said Harry, swallowing against a sudden lump in his throat, "but there's loads of mice if you want to hunt a bit. You can come back any time, you know." He took the letter, noted the Ministry seal, and shoved it in his back pocket.

The day stretched out whilst Harry continued his labours until the shadows of the house fell over the plot of land he was working. He knelt up and wiped his brow. It had been a hot day in London, and though the sweat had run into his eyes and down his neck, Harry paid it no mind. An honest day's work felt better than lounging around doing nothing.

He barely blinked when the sharp crack of Apparition sounded behind him. If it wasn't a Weasley, it was Hermione, since no one else was permitted through the protective charms added to the house when Harry took possession of it. He came to his feet and wiped his hands on his jeans before turning to greet Ron with a nod of his head.

"Did Hermione come with you?" he asked as the two of them headed into the house.

"No, she's back at the Burrow," said Ron as he helped himself to a bottle of butterbeer from Harry's cooling cupboard and pulled one out for Harry as well. "She saw the article in the _Prophet_ , though, and started worrying. You know how she gets."

"What article?" replied Harry. "You know I don't read that thing." He popped the cork and straddled a kitchen chair before taking a long pull from the bottle.

"Reparation notices have been sent," said Ron, a troubled look clouding his blue eyes. "And you used Unforgivables during the war."

Harry tilted his head. "She reckons I'm going to Azkaban, does she? She's mental, mate. Are you certain you want to marry her?" He grinned as Ron rolled his eyes. "Honestly, I don't know what she's worried about. Kingsley said I had the same choices as everyone else, and that I wasn't going to get off for being Harry Potter."

"She thinks the Ministry is being unfair about the whole thing. She thinks you should just ignore it and see what happens."

"Ron, I used the Cruciatus curse and the Imperius curse. Twice, even. Since the Wizengamot wants the Unforgivables to stay Unforgivable, I've got to be punished along with the rest." Perhaps he should have felt more strongly about it, but Harry had admitted to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement that he had used the Curses and had no expectation, one way or another, of what would come of it. He was weary to the depths of his soul, and if the Wizengamot wanted to make an example of him, it was perfectly alright with him.

"Well, you know Hermione," said Ron. "'It's not fair' ought to be her middle name. Have you made up your mind about what you're going to do?"

Harry pulled the letter out of his back pocket and turned it over a time or two. "I suppose I ought to read it. Who knows? Maybe Hermione got her way and they've decided that I get a pass for killing Voldemort." He opened the letter and skimmed through it, setting aside a page with dense writing that covered both front and back.

"Nope," he said cheerfully. "It's the same as Kingsley said. Azkaban for five years, community service for five years or support some poor sod who's lost everything." He set the letter down on the table as the smile left his eyes. "There are too many Teddys, you know? Too many without even the basic necessities. I know what it's like to have nothing, Ron, so even if I hadn't used the Curses, I'd find a way to give back."

Harry rustled through a kitchen drawer and found a quill with a point that wasn't completely shredded, and then Summoned a bottle of ink with an idle wave of his hand.

Ron blinked. "Wandless and wordless? Since when have you been able to do magic like that?"

"Dunno," said Harry with a shrug. "I needed a trowel the other day and it smacked into my hand. I don't even remember casting a spell." His smile returned. "It's pretty cool, though." He ticked off the box to indicate that he would make payments, provided a vault number and signed his name. "There. I'll send it by owl tomorrow."

"And?" said Ron, reaching for the form. He read through it and nodded. "Thought as much. It's too bad you can't just adopt Teddy and call it good."

"I considered asking Kingsley about it, but this is supposed to be some 'double-blind' thing. I'll be supporting someone directly, though. Whoever I'm matched to can contact the Ministry if they need anything in particular, and they'll forward the request to me. Kingsley figures that folks are less likely to ask for stuff they don't really need if they know there's a person behind it who might barely be keeping their own head above water. That's the theory, at any rate. I think it's ridiculous, but the Wizengamot ate it up."

"Can you meet the recipient?" asked Ron.

Harry shook his head. "Not right away. After three years, I think. The rules are on that second page."

"The ones you didn't read?" asked Ron with a lift of his eyebrow.

"Like you would?" said Harry, mimicking Ron's expression. "Care to stay for dinner?

"I'm supposed to bring you back to the Burrow," confessed Ron. "Ginny is whinging about how you won't make any time for her, and Mum wants to see for herself that you've not wasted away. She's certain you don't eat enough, and she reckons that Kreacher can't cook nearly as well as she does."

Harry tilted his chair back on two legs and sighed. "I know I should go, but as much as I hate this place, it's quiet here." He searched Ron's face. "I don't think me and Ginny will last. I love her, but it's the same way I love Hermione. She's not the one for me, and I don't know how to tell her."

Ron laced his fingers and rested his forearms on the table. He nodded slowly. "I thought as much, and I don't blame you, mate. She's going back to Hogwarts with Hermione come September, and we're starting Auror training. It's not the right time for you. It's not the right time for me and Hermione to get married, either."

"I'm not sure she's going to understand," admitted Harry. "It was one thing when we were at school together, but everything's different now. I'm not the person I was in sixth year, and I still have things I need to come to grips with."

There was a long silence and Ron appeared to be waging a fierce internal battle. He sat up straight and took a long drink before locking eyes with Harry. "Because you're bent, right?" he asked quietly.

Harry's heart thundered in his chest, and his mouth went Sahara dry. His hands shook, and he felt his cheeks burn with embarrassment and shame. "How did you…" he whispered as he folded in on himself. He dropped his head and studied the top of the table.

"Charlie's queer," said Ron in the same tone of voice, "and when you grow up with someone who's bent, certain things stand out. Wood, Cedric, Malfoy, your Half-Blood Prince. Even Bill and Charlie," said Ron. "You talk in your sleep, mate, and I've known you since we were eleven."

Harry stared in amazement. "Why aren't you shouting at me and calling me names?" he demanded. "I've heard them all, you know, thanks to my stupid cousin."

"Dudley knows?" asked Ron, wide-eyed. "I always figured they'd kill you straight away if they found out. Those Muggles aren't the sort who would allow someone like that to live under their roof. Charlie told me there are loads of Muggles who hate queers on principle. Kind of like us with Slytherins."

Harry didn't know whether to laugh or cry, but as he wasn't one for tears, he just blinked owlishly and continued to stare at Ron as though he had just sprouted antlers.

"Cousin," Ron prompted.

"What?" Harry was bewildered for a moment, but as his mind was racing a mile a minute, it was not strange that he could barely keep a thought in his head. "Oh. He heard my nightmares about Cedric in the graveyard. He reckoned Cedric was my boyfriend and wouldn't let it go, but he never said anything in front of Vernon. I think he knew, but he didn't want to know, if that makes sense." Harry felt like he was babbling and returned to staring mutely instead.

"Hermione, Mum, Dad, and Bill," said Ron as if reading Harry's mind. "Not Ginny, George, Percy or Charlie. Hermione and I have known since Cho. The bit with Ginny confused us, but Bill said Charlie did the same thing. If I were you, I'd carry on as you are. Say nothing to Gin. Get through your birthday, because you know you can't hide from that, and ignore her once we get our own place for training. She goes to Hogwarts, we get busy with Auror school and it dies a natural death."

"And you're alright with all this?" sputtered Harry.

"Yep," said Ron. "I'll Firecall mum and tell her I'm staying here for a day or so."

Harry watched as Ron’s head disappeared into the fireplace, feeling oddly relieved and strangely let down all at once. Ron knew and was curiously unbothered by it. From what he had said, Harry suspected Ron had figured it out before he had. For a few distressing moments he felt like a stranger in his own skin, but when Ron stood up and announced he was hungry, Harry understood that nothing had really changed. He was still Harry, Ron was still Ron, and his life was the same old mess it had always been.

~*~

Severus Snape awoke to see stars. It was the only thing familiar about the room in which he found himself, and the mere thought that he was in a room and seeing stars whilst laying flat on his back was enough to give him a headache. He had no idea where he was or how he had come to be there, but he was alive, and that was something he hadn't expected. He was supposed to have died, preferably with some dignity, but the Dark Lord hadn't seen fit to allow him any of that.

During his period of wakefulness, Snape carefully took stock of his condition. He could move his head from side to side if he did it slowly enough. He could raise eight fingers—the middle and ring fingers of his left hand refused to cooperate—and wiggle his toes. He could not lift his head more than an inch unless he wished to experience pain as acute as any Cruciatus Curse. Nor could he move much else.

He was, he recognised, at the mercy of his captors. The same captors who had seen fit to deposit him in a stark white room with little more than an oddly placed skylight to remind him of his captivity

In short, he was doomed.

Snape watched as the stars wheeled slowly through the sky and, after several hours of observation, he came to the conclusion that the skylight was oriented along a line pointing northeast. An hour later, he revised his estimate as the sun began to lighten the window a few degrees off from where he thought it would.

Why couldn't they have simply allowed him to wither away in Azkaban?

The room grew brighter as a new day was born, and Snape saw that it was worse than he imagined. Not only was it stark white, it fairly glowed. The walls were white. The ceiling was white. The few furnishings he could see where white. The bedding was white. If they meant to drive him completely around the twist, they were off to a brilliant start.

The door opened and the monochromatic colour scheme was broken by a slender young girl with yellow hair and blue overalls. Her shirt was red and her feet were bare. Maybe it was summer. Her protuberant blue eyes gazed serenely at him and she smiled. "Hello, Professor," she said in her high, lilting voice. "How are you today?" She pulled her wand, and the head of the bed tilted up a bit.

Snape blinked at the unexpected visitor. Luna Lovegood? He recognised her the moment she set foot in the room, as anyone who had been at Hogwarts with her would have done. His eyes narrowed as he struggled to dredge up what he knew about her. Ravenclaw, naturally; she was far too bizarre for any other House. Flitwick's word for it had been "creative." A year behind Potter, if his reckoning was right. She must have chosen not to return to finish her education.

Lovely. In what sort of world would she be placed in a position of authority over anyone? He began to suspect he was not a prisoner, but neither was he at St Mungo's or Hogwarts. "Where am I?" he croaked in a voice wispier than anything Trelawney had ever managed.

"Home," she replied. "You live here." She reached a hand into her pocket, pulled out a fistful of phials and lined them up carefully on the small table by the bed. From another pocket came a lengthy parchment that she began to read, and Snape noted she mouthed the words as she did. Just as he suspected, he was in the care of the incompetent.

"Why are you here?" he said in his breathy voice.

"Oh, I chose community service for my sentence," she said airily. "I tried to Imperius Draco Malfoy, but the spell didn't go as planned. I should have asked him to let us go instead of bringing us food from the kitchens. A house-elf caught him and Bellatrix Lestrange ended the enchantment, you see, so we still went hungry and were tortured as well. It all worked out in the end, though."

She consulted her parchment and smiled at him. "I'm to give you these. Madam Pomfrey says they were made by the Potions Master at Hogwarts, so they should be all right." She dosed him with a powerful antivenin that was as bitter as he was. That was followed quickly by a Blood Replenisher, a modified Shrinking Solution of his own creation, a thick heavy Nutrient, and a pain reliever, in that order.

Snape coughed and choked and swallowed as quickly as his torn throat would allow, but to his great relief, he felt better almost at once. As an experiment, he tried lifting his head and found that he could. His fingers worked, he could move his legs and he suspected that, if he was willing to endure crippling pain, he might be able to sit up on his own.

Too many questions filled his head, and he gazed at her with suspicion. "If you will not tell me where I am, will you tell me how long I am expected to remain here?"

"As long as you wish, I imagine. This is your house, you know," she replied. "Your donor thought you would like a quiet place in the country, so that's what you have."

"My donor," he said flatly. "And who might that be?" He would have asked that question with a silky edge of danger to his voice, but at the moment, he sounded about as threatening as a toad.

Luna's eyes slid away from his face, and she went to stand by a window covered with white curtains. She opened them to reveal a stand of birch and beech trees a short distance away, the soft morning light falling like dew on the starchy white duvet. "Oh, someone," she said dismissively. Luna lifted a hand and waved at someone, smiling when they must have waved back.

She turned and started towards the door. "I'm very pleased you decided to wake up, Professor. Maybe now you'll get better."

~*~

Over the next few weeks, Snape learnt far more about his condition than he ever suspected, and far less about the Wizarding world than he wanted to know. The inimitable Ms Lovegood had informed him that, upon finding his bleeding body on the floor in the Shrieking Shack, Lucius Malfoy had spelled a phial of the Draught of the Living Death into his stomach, placing him in stasis, and then abandoned him to his fate. A full day later, Harry Fucking Potter remembered where he'd left Snape's body and retrieved it just before the Ministry destroyed the place in a zealous attempt to rid the world of surviving Death Eaters, none of which had been hiding there.

His body arrived at Hogwarts, where, after another two-day period of lying in state (or so he liked to imagine), an army of house-elves placed themselves between it and an open grave, causing a minor panic when they insisted that the Headmaster of Hogwarts ought not to be buried alive. Snape supposed he owed them some thanks, but he would reserve judgment on that until he knew if he was going to recover fully.

His body had then been shipped to St Mungo's. A team of Healers tried every combination of spell and potion known to Man, engaging, Snape thought, in far too much foolish wand waving and far too many silly incantations, all in an effort to resurrect him, but to no avail. For the longest time he lay suspended somewhere between waking and dead, stashed away on the Janus Thickey Ward until some enterprising intern who didn't know any better pointed a wand at him and shouted, "Ennervate!" His eyes had opened and he moaned. The intern fainted.

What Ms Lovegood would _not_ tell him was why she was there, why Neville Longbottom was there, or who his mysterious benefactor was. Nor would she permit him to read the _Daily Prophet_ , no matter how much he ranted and raved. The only reason he knew that the season was approaching Autumn was because he could see the leaves starting to change colour.

That was another thing that was destroying his equanimity (though no one who knew him would have ever said he had any): the accursed little witch was completely unflappable. Insult after screaming insult he threw at her head, but she just smiled and rearranged the furniture, saying that the Wrackspouts were particularly bad that day or that Niggles must have invaded his brain.

Every single day she administered his potions and fed him. She read to him, which was a nightmare in and of itself. It wasn't that Snape objected to Muggle novels; indeed, he loved the written word. But Luna had a frustrating habit of grabbing a book off a shelf and opening it at random to read to him. One day he might be sympathising with Heathcliff, and the next day he was wondering if Jack Ryan would find that misplaced submarine. There was no continuity. It was as if she'd poured the pieces to a dozen puzzles into a pile and showed them to him a piece at a time, expecting him to know which picture it formed.

On this day, the door opened to reveal Neville Longbottom floating a pitcher and basin before him. "Time for your bath, Professor," he said as though he bathed Snape every day. Which he did.

"Why don't you simply help me out of bed?" snarled Snape. "I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself, Longbottom. A Gryffindor hero need not spend his time taking care of the likes of me. It's a bit beneath your calling." Snape told himself he wasn't bitter, but he hated being dependent upon anyone.

"And to think I was once afraid of you," sighed Neville in mock despair. He, too, had grown up, much to Snape's annoyance. "Hmm, let's see," continued Neville. "I think this is the part where I say, 'I'd be happy to, Professor,' and you fall on the floor. Ready?" He waited patiently for Snape to throw off the covers and swing his feet to the side of the bed, but Snape simply glowered instead.

The sponge bath was well-practised and Snape felt better for being clean. "Mr Longbottom, why are you here?" he sighed, weary to the core of just existing with nothing to look forward to.

Neville gazed steadily at him and transfigured the night stand into a chair. "I'm not supposed to tell you, though I'm not certain why. Luna says the time's not right." He shifted uncomfortably for a moment. "I don't think it will be much longer, though. You're nearly strong enough to stand now."

This much was true. Snape endured thrice-daily exercises designed to strengthen his wasted muscles, and every day he felt a little closer to mobility. "Well, don't just stand there like a ruddy statue. Best get on with it," he snapped.

"Are you ever pleasant?" asked Neville with a long-suffering sigh.

"No," replied Snape coldly. "And that was as ridiculous a question as you have ever asked." But Neville's hands were gentle and Snape was cooperative. His tongue was his shield and he armoured himself against kindness as best as he could. But there were large chinks there, and Snape was as vulnerable to decency as the next man.

Days flowed into weeks, weeks into months, and before Snape knew it, a year had passed. He was no longer confined to his bed, but to his utter surprise, with mobility had not come abandonment. Neville and Luna were daily visitors, taking meals with him, assisting him with the bits of housework that he did not care to do and keeping him company.

His only other visitor was Kingsley Shacklebolt, who had shown up one night for dinner with a sheaf of paperwork and a bottle of 21-year old Firewhisky, over which they hammered out a peace treaty and found they got on surprisingly well together. Kingsley was every bit as adept at the pointed barb as Snape, and since Snape had not had anyone to spar with since Dumbledore, he enjoyed the night very much.

"So, there you have it, Snape," said Kingsley. "We get ten years of brewing out of you, you get to be a kept man. After that, you're on your own."

Snape sat in his wingback chair, his legs crossed, and said nothing for a very long time. "Must I brew, Shacklebolt?"

"Only if you insist on calling me by my last name," growled Kingsley. "Is there something you'd rather do? We, those of us who worked on the R and R, thought you'd be happy to get back to doing what you do best without having to worry about piddly things like keeping customers happy."

"You spend twenty years over steaming cauldrons and reeking of bubotuber pus and oil of murtlap and tell me how much you enjoy it," said Snape with his customary sneer. "Yes, I'm good at it. Yes, I find the art of brewing relaxing, but I would rather it were a hobby than a vocation."

Kingsley regarded Snape the way one would a poisonous snake coiled and ready to strike. "If you're planning to volunteer as an aide at St Mungo's, don't," he cautioned. "The Ministry has made an effort to match the community service volunteers—"

"Conscripts," corrected Snape.

"—to the appropriate task," continued Kingsley.

"Which explains how Lovegood and Longbottom became my caretakers," concluded Snape. "I should have recognised the fine hand of the Ministry at work." There was very little venom in his tone; he counted Luna and Neville as among the few friends he had.

"But to return to the matter at hand." His eyes grew distant as his expression became pensive. "Longbottom uses a part of the land here as a nursery. I would like to use the rest of it to expand the size of the operation and grow harder-to-obtain potions ingredients. I would like to feel the wind on my face, Kingsley, the sun at my back. I do not wish to be confined any longer. I have had enough of that."

Kingsley's eyes narrowed, and he tilted his head as he considered it. "Have you spoken of this to Longbottom?"

"I already work with him in the fields." Snape held up and displayed calloused hands stained with earth instead of potions. "He is..." Snape paused and looked around for a moment. "Extraordinarily gifted, as is Ms Lovegood."

Kingsley laughed. "Merlin forbid you should utter a kind word that might be overheard. Very well, Severus. I will alter the conditions to permit you to grow, harvest and market potions ingredients for use at St Mungo's and Hogwarts. Anything you and Neville grow beyond our needs you may sell, and divide the proceeds however you wish. We'll draw up a contract with him to ensure he is fairly compensated for his efforts. Is there anything else?"

Snape wetted his lips and gazed around his cottage. "Who is responsible for all this?" he asked finally.

"Hmmm." Kingsley regarded him for a moment. "I'm afraid I can't say, but I can say this: your benefactor is determined you should want for nothing."

Snape's lip curled in anger. "Tell him, or her, I want a cat." He launched himself from his chair and took himself upstairs to bed without bothering to see Kingsley out.

Three days later, Luna Lovegood walked into the house bearing a beautiful lilac Siamese kitten in her arms. Its china blue eyes regarded Snape with caution, and then it meowed softly and climbed into his lap.

"I spoke with as many kittens as I could find," said Luna. "This is the one you need."

~*~

Snape and Neville paused in their labours and surveyed just how much more work was ahead of them. A chimera had broken into the Mediterranean greenhouse and destroyed half of their notoriously fickle _Sirena della Eolie_ , a singing flower that grew on a very few Aeolian islands. The surviving plants were singing dirges, and now he and Neville were trying to coax a Wandering Bard into spinning the saga into a myth that would give the Eolies a new song to create.

Cat had woken him before dawn with a low growl, batting his nose until he reached consciousness. She screamed once, a spine-tingling sound that he hoped never to hear again, and he'd thrown a dressing gown over his nightshirt and followed her to the greenhouse. She proved her worth in the next few minutes, pouncing on a creature four times her size, digging her claws deep into its back and riding it as it fought to throw her off. The distraction had given Snape enough time to stun the beast and levitate it out of the greenhouse. Neville had shown up a few minutes later and lopped off its heads.

It was part and parcel of running an enterprise as vast as this. Over the past three years, they had doubled, and then doubled again the size of their operations. Every time they had wanted to expand, Snape floated the idea past them and, within a month, more land had been acquired. It unnerved him a bit how easily everything seemed to fall into place, but Snape fully expected disaster to strike and was vigilant in waiting for that other shoe to drop.

Once the greenhouse had been more or less restored to order, Snape strode through the back door in search of some unguent, Cat weaving in and out of his legs as he walked. He came to an abrupt halt as he stepped into the dining nook, the hair on the back of his neck rising along with his panic.

"Potter," he snarled as his heart began to race, recognising that head of messy black hair at once. He clutched his arm, blood from the gash he'd received on the Barbed Mother-in-Law's Tongue seeping through his fingers. To his surprise, Cat leapt into Harry's lap and began to knead his thighs. His sense of betrayal was now complete.

"I should go," Harry said quietly, picking up Cat and setting her down gently. "I'm sorry, Luna. This was a bad idea." He stood quickly, gazed at Snape with uncertain eyes and started for the front door, moving through the house as though he'd been there a hundred times before.

Cat reached the door before Harry and growled menacingly at him, her back arched, the fur along her spine standing straight up. When he took another step forward, she crouched, her tail lashing, her blue eyes staring hard at his face.

"Oh, you're hurt," said Luna to Snape. "I'll get the Paste, and we'll have that taken care of in no time. Go wash your arm, and let Harry and Cat work out their problems on their own." She gave Snape a curious smile and disappeared into the basement.

Knowing that Luna generally gave good advice, Snape washed up at the kitchen sink, though he glanced repeatedly over his shoulder, almost as if he didn’t trust what Harry might be up to behind him. But there was more to it. In the years since Snape had last seen him, Harry had filled out some. He was no longer a poster child for war orphans: lean instead of scrawny, his muscles toned and firm, his face no longer boyish, though still boyishly handsome. He was one of those people who, even in old age, would still seem youthful.

"Cat," Snape called once he had dried off, "leave him alone. He's not needed here."

Cat remained unconvinced, hissing and spitting every time Harry moved closer to the door.

"There is another door," Snape said derisively when the stand-off failed to abate. "And there are no anti-Apparition wards." His tone grew mocking. "I suppose I shouldn't be surprised that an esteemed member of the Auror Corps would be done in by a cat."

"I'm not done in by a cat," said Harry, his tone scathing. "I'm just marvelling at how much like her owner she is, though she does seem a bit backwards in her thinking. She should be throwing me out, not keeping me in." He squared his shoulders, drew in a deep breath and took a few determined steps forward, yelping when claws and teeth sank into his ankle. Still, he opened the door and limped down the walk, dragging Cat along with him, losing her only when he stepped through the gate.

"That went well," said Luna cheerily. "I expect it will all work out in the end. Now let me see your arm." She worked steadily for a few minutes until it was healed.

"Explain to me, please, why Harry Potter was in my house?"

"Hmm. The Wrackspurts are terrible today." Luna's eyes became reproachful. "Did you know that Harry Potter was the first friend I ever had? I thought at first it might have been Ginny, but she didn't really like me until after the Department of Mysteries. He could have liked anyone after that—everybody wanted to be his friend when they all thought he was the Chosen One—but he said he'd rather stay friends with me. He said I was cool." Her smile became brilliant.

"Tell Neville that dinner will be a bit late tonight." Luna came to her feet, skritched Cat behind her ears and headed towards the door. "You'll have to fend for yourself for now, Professor, but I expect you'll manage. You always have done."

Snape stared after her as she left, taken aback by her parting words. Fend for himself? Of course he could manage, but the nights where he'd eaten alone had been few and far between. It was rare for Luna and Neville to spend evenings in the little cottage situated along the lane that served as the property line for their vast fields.

A week passed; then two, and then three. By the middle of the fourth week, Snape had had enough. Neville was barely speaking to him and Luna had become all but invisible. Even Cat was distant, no longer curling up on his pillow, no longer hogging the bed. It still defied belief that a thirteen-pound cat could arrange itself in such a manner that it occupied a bed spacious enough for three human beings without leaving room for any of them, but Snape had awoken on many a morning to find himself clinging to the edge of the mattress whilst Cat stretched out comfortably in the middle.

Angry and frustrated, Snape spent a rainy Saturday morning baking a delicate orange cake to present to Neville and Luna as a peace offering. He missed their company. He missed their friendship. He missed the easy and relaxed working atmosphere he and Neville had created between them. Though loath to admit it, his heart ached at the loss, and he was embarrassed by the realisation that he would do anything to make amends.

He knocked at their door, braving driving winds and stinging raindrops to deliver a treat he knew they would enjoy. When Luna answered the door, he presented the cake, charmed with every protective spell he could think of. "I have come to tender my apologies," he said stiffly, water dripping off his rather prominent nose.

Luna looked past him at the white clapboard house Snape called home, at the dark windows, at the chimney that gave no sign of a fire within. She turned without a word and disappeared inside the lovely little vine-covered cottage, leaving Snape standing on the porch, cake in hand.

Neville appeared a moment later and took the cake. "Is Harry with you?"

"Potter?" replied Snape in confusion. A second later he snarled. "What has he to do with anything?" They'd been happy here in their own little world, far away from the hustle and bustle of London. A friendship had arisen and Snape cherished it, but Potter had arrived and five minutes later it had all turned to ash.

"Luna cares for you," said Neville, his dark eyes piercing. "She always has done. It was her idea to help you and we've been happier and more successful than we ever thought possible. But she loves Harry, as do I. You've always found a way to tear him down, even when he didn't deserve it, but you've been allowed to be cruel to him for too long. Patch things up with Harry, learn to be nice to him, and we'll see if we can mend this. If not, I'll sell out and you can find someone else to work with."

Neville turned and started to go back inside. "Oh, and thanks for the cake. Let us know how things go with Harry." He closed the door with his foot, leaving Snape dripping wet and with nowhere else to go but home.

~*~

The note was short, sweet and to the point.

_Potter,_

_My house. 7:30 Saturday night. Dinner._

_SS_

Snape spent the day cooking and cleaning whilst Cat looked on, unimpressed. He polished wine glasses and washed windows until they sparkled. He laid well-seasoned eucalyptus on the hearth. He changed clothes four times, used a shaving charm twice, and felt like an enormous prat the entire time.

Harry had not responded to his invitation. Snape had no idea whether to expect him or not, but Luna and Neville felt strongly that Snape needed to make amends for...for...for his entire life, apparently. The problem was that Harry had grown up. He had become a man—not only that, but the sort of man Snape was desperately attracted to. Age had nothing to do with it, nor did appearance, though Snape would admit to a weakness for dark hair and fair skin.

It was Harry's self-assurance, his confidence, that indefinable _something_ that drew eyes to him without any effort at all. Harry was, to Snape's mind, staggeringly handsome and had been since Snape's last year as the boy's professor. Snape had no idea how he would get through the night without humiliating himself.

As the appointed time grew near, Snape went to stand at the windows in the front room and watched as snow began to fall. It was a soft snow, with flakes the size of feathers; a snow that clung to hair and eyelashes and never seemed to melt until one stepped indoors. A snow that begged for a horse-drawn sleigh and bells jingling merrily in the crisp night air.

A fresh blanket of white shimmered in the golden light of the fire roaring beside him, and Snape sipped from his glass of red wine as he waited to see if he would, once again, be dining alone or if he would have someone to share his table. He pulled the curtain back a little further, caught sight of the sleeve of his dark green jumper and wondered if he should change (again) into something black. It wasn't the green of Slytherin House, but something much deeper than that. He doubted Potter would appreciate the subtle difference.

Cat meowed and bumped her head determinedly against his leg, and Snape walked to the kitchen to see if she required either food or water. She did not, but he changed her water anyway, and the moment his hands were full, a quiet knock sounded at the door.

"You did that on purpose," said Snape balefully to Cat, and then shouted, "Coming," as he set down the dish. He met Harry halfway to the door and stopped suddenly. "Do you make a habit of entering places uninvited?" he asked, his brows lowering suspiciously over beetle-black eyes.

"Didn't you say come in?" asked Harry, clearly mystified. He removed his cloak and looked around for a place to hang it, whilst clutching under his arm a brightly wrapped box.

Snape took the cloak, stared at the box and shook his head as he went to hang the cloak in the closet. "Thank you for coming," he growled, trying his best to inject a bit of politeness into his tone whilst simultaneously trying not to stare. Harry, too, had chosen a dark green jumper, very nearly a match to his own, but instead of black trousers, he had selected a pair of camel hair trousers that clung to his arse like a second skin.

Harry laughed, a far more melodious sound than Snape remembered. "I can tell just how much you wanted me here," he said. "Here, this is for you." He offered the box, inexpertly wrapped in paper on which...shapes... had been drawn with what Snape supposed was crayon. "Teddy wrapped it."

Snape took the box, clearly confused. "Teddy...?"

"Teddy Lupin?" said Harry, now equally confused. "Uhh, may I?" He gestured at the glass of wine sitting on the counter beyond Snape. "I have a feeling I'm going to need it." He walked into the kitchen and extended his hand toward the open bottle, a question in his eyes.

"Yes, of course," said Snape. Cat leapt up onto the counter and began to 'talk', but whether she was scolding him or welcoming Harry he couldn't say. Given the way she rubbed her head against Harry's arms, chest and shoulders, he would say it was the latter.

Harry took Cat's face in his hands and stroked her cheeks firmly with his thumbs, pulling her eyes back and flattening her ears, and he was rewarded with a loud rumbling purr. "I think she likes me." He scratched her head, poured some wine and then waited expectantly.

Nothing was going as planned. Snape had intended to be civil, to invite Harry in, show him to the front room and offer him a drink. Cat had thrown his scheme straight out the window, and now he was forced to improvise. "Make yourself at home," he heard himself say and, to his astonishment, Harry did just that.

Harry settled himself in a chair near the fire and placed his wine down on the low table in front of him. He removed his shoes and pointed his toes toward the fire, wiggling them and sighing comfortably. "So, it sounded to me like you don't know who Teddy is."

Snape stood awkwardly for a moment before sitting in Luna's chair on the other side of the fireplace. Had Harry known that was 'his' chair? Is that why he sat there? Or had he just chosen it at random? "Given his surname, I would assume he is Lupin's son. Do you still see him, then? The last of the Marauders?" He fought to keep the bitterness out of his voice, but given the strange look that came over Harry's face, it appeared that he had not succeeded in the least.

"Teddy's an orphan, like me," said Harry quietly. "He's my godson. Didn't you know Remus died at the Battle of Hogwarts? And Tonks as well?"

The blood drained from Snape's face. Years ago, when he had first been brought to this house, Luna had refused his demands to see the _Daily Prophet_. As time went on, he had forgotten about it, finding life here in the country—wherever he was—much to his liking. They never, ever discussed the War. Snape had no desire to look back; nor did Neville and Luna. "I did not. I was never told, and after some time had passed, I realised I was happier in my ignorance."

"Lucky you," said Harry under his breath. "Then we won't speak of it. You did your part, I did mine, we won, it's over." He met Snape's gaze, old eyes in a young face, and mutual understanding passed between them. They'd been comrades, though Harry hadn't known it until it was too late to do anything about it.

Cat claimed Harry's lap again. His hand dropped to her back, and he began to pet her. "I'm not quite certain why you invited me here, and tonight of all nights. You didn't seem all that happy to see me when I was here visiting Luna."

"I am unaccustomed to visitors from my past," said Snape stiffly. "Neville and Luna joined some community service project, and I was the mission that required accomplishing, so they volunteered. Kingsley explained some of it to me when he brought me my papers of indentured servitude. I understand that I'm a charity case for someone working off an Unforgivable or two, but I am given to understand that as I am now self-sufficient, I will no longer be beholden to anybody."

"Except Neville and Luna's good will," said Harry. A veil seemed to settle over his face, the open, friendly expression making a steady retreat behind a mask of cordial indifference. It was painful to watch, and Snape had no idea what he'd said to insult the boy—the man.

"Which seems to be predicated on making amends to you." Snape paused and gazed around his home. Larger than Spinner's End, it was, perhaps, nothing special to the casual visitor; but to Snape, it was the most luxurious place he'd ever lived. He had every comfort he could possibly imagine: good neighbours, excellent food, a Cat who was devoted to him and a flourishing business he and Neville had built with their own hands.

Snape took a sip of wine. "It is habit that causes me to hide behind bitterness and rudeness," he confessed. "I've never known quite what to make of you, and seeing you here, in my home, at my table, has reduced me once again to the wreck of a man you knew as a child."

"Luna adores you," replied Harry, his eyes shining in the firelight. "She's been writing to me every week since she and Neville took you on. I probably know more about you than you do yourself." There was not a trace of arrogance, no sign of self-importance. It was a factual statement delivered with honesty. "I know you prefer Tom Clancy to Charlotte Bronte. That you would rather listen to the Beatles than Beethoven. That you wanted a cat just to ask for something you didn't have.

"I know every stick of wood in this place. I know to the square foot how much land you and Neville work and how much you grow. I know that you almost never brew and that you have never left here, even after you were well enough to travel on your own. I know," said Harry, leaning forward, his green eyes intense, "that you are unable to forgive yourself for your many misdeeds, all of which were necessary." His gaze sharpened even as his expression gentled. "For what it's worth, I forgive you. I just wish," he added in a whisper, "you would forgive me."

A camel's back is strong and can carry a tremendous weight, but there comes a point where the load is one straw too many. And so it was with Severus Snape. His jaw worked and a strange sound slipped from behind gritted teeth. White-faced, he rose from the chair and walked with uneven steps to the kitchen sink, clutching the counter with fingers gone pale and staring out into the void.

When Cat jumped up onto the counter and butted her head against his shoulder, Snape knew Harry would not be far behind. He was right. A hand no less strong for being gentle rested in the middle of his back. "What have you done that requires my forgiveness?" Snape asked in a tight voice, feeling down to the marrow of his bones that he knew the answer.

The hand moved in soothing circles before being withdrawn, no longer certain of its reception. Harry moved behind the cooking island, and wrung his hands nervously whilst Snape watched his reflection in the window glass. "I was convicted of using three Unforgivable Curses during the War. I was given the same choice as everyone else: Azkaban, community service or I could help someone get back on their feet. I was starting Auror training in a couple of months, so I chose to support someone. The Department of Mysteries matched me with the person they thought would best suit me.

"Turns out I hated being an Auror, so I dropped out after a few months. Ron finished, though," Harry added brightly. "My 'family' turned out to be a badly wounded witch or wizard who would be homeless once they were well enough to leave hospital. Since they needed a house and I needed something to do, I decided to build one.

"It turns out I'm really good at building things. There's magic to help when I need more hands, but there's loads to do without it, and I'm best when I can do both."

"Both?"

"Muggle and magic," said Harry. "I like both." He sipped some wine from the glass near his hand. "Luna wrote me and said that she and Neville were getting married and had chosen the community service thing, but they didn't know when it would start since no one could tell them when you'd get better. Their cottage is the first place I built, since I thought it best if I had some notion of what I was doing. Neville told me what he wanted and found the land, and we went from there.

"Oddly enough, the person I'd been assigned was still in hospital, too. In fact, he was one of the last to leave. I might be thick as a post, but I can put things together. I brought my suspicions to Kingsley, and he didn't deny them. So I built this." He walked over to a supporting beam and leaned against it, gazing around and smiling as if he'd come home.

"I took everything I knew about you and everything I thought I knew about myself and built this. Ron and Hermione teased me about it for ages, thinking I had a mad crush on you." Harry chuckled a bit, and his cheeks coloured. "I reckon they weren't wrong, since every bloke I've ever dated I've ended up leaving because they weren't smart enough or honest enough or didn't have an ounce of courage. But as you and I have never gotten on particularly well, I really couldn't say what it was they didn't have. Whatever makes you you, I suppose.

"I know all the requests for the things you needed were supposed to go through the Ministry, but with Neville and Luna working with you and building friendships with you, it was easier to find out from them what you wanted and get it. When you expanded, Neville bought half the land, I bought the other half. I chose the books for the library—I'm sorry Luna didn't read them in order. I asked her to find Cat, though." Harry stepped over and began petting her again. "She's sweet."

"She's a traitor," replied Snape, though the bite was quite obviously missing from his tone.

"The thing with Neville and Luna," said Harry quietly as he moved away again. "That's my fault and I'm sorry. I'll sort it out with them, I promise. I was gutted when you threw me out, hurt like I'd never been before. A bit silly, I suppose. I've been...well, I guess 'stalking you' is the right way to say it. I just...you've no idea...they weren't wrong, except they were, and I reckon I'd hoped that if enough time went by you might start to see me as me and not my dad, but it's all rather stupid really, and I've no idea why I got my hopes up, but I did, and there you have it. I wanted you to like me. Maybe even more than that someday."

Did Harry just admit to being attracted to him? Had a ray of hope shone through the darkness without being snuffed out by fate both cruel and terrible? Snape had been watching Harry's reflection in the window, becoming more smitten with every word. A peculiar sense of optimism filled his heart, and his fingers relaxed incrementally on the counter. "What's so special about tonight?" he asked after a long time spent replaying the nicer bits of Harry's speech in his mind.

"I beg your pardon?" said Harry, blinking with surprise at the non sequitur. He circled back to the counter and rested his hip on it, his hands fluttering strangely as if he didn't quite know what to do with them.

"You said you didn't know why I invited you tonight of all nights," said Snape, his normally smooth voice rough as sandpaper. If he looked hard enough, he thought, he might be able to see Neville and Luna's house. Perhaps they'd know by the smoke from the chimney he was not alone. Perhaps they'd know he'd made amends to Harry.

"It's Christmas, Severus. A night of happiness. A night of peace." Harry smiled at him, a warm smile that one friend might bestow upon another. "Were I a more Slytherin man, I might be tempted to conjure some mistletoe and take advantage of the holiday, but I think I'll just ask Neville and Luna to join us instead."

Snape turned and his eyes searched Harry's face, scarcely daring to believe what had happened here. This house, his home, _Harry's_ home, or should be. Suddenly he wished very much that it might all come true. "I would like that," he said, offering an uncertain smile. "I would like that very much."

Harry sent his Patronus off into the night, and then leaned back and surveyed the kitchen, admiring the open beamed ceiling and the wide windows that filled the house with warmth and light. "My first Christmas in the House that Harry Built. I hope it's not my last,” he said.

"I think," said Snape as he pulled Harry close, "you can be well assured of that." He felt Harry's arms around him, felt Harry's fingers in his hair, and he hesitated slightly as their eyes met. He pressed their lips together in a tentative kiss, which deepened into something joyful and wondrous, and Snape knew there would be many more such kisses in his future.

Luna had been right. It would all work out in the end.


End file.
